And yet, and yet…

I was honored this past week to officiate the funeral of my grandfather, William Obed Gillum, or as I knew him, Grampy. It was a joy-filled message celebrating his humor, his kindness, and his constancy. And over everything else, it was a privilege to point all present toward how Jesus was visible through his life.

As I was driving out to their house in the country, I came across a tract that had just been stripped of lumber. If you’re familiar with these kinds of scenes, it’s usually a pretty sad and grey picture. There’s something melancholy about looking at a landscape that was previously green and vibrant, filled with birds and other animals, now shorn.

Even more stark for me is that in my mind’s eye, those forests were always there. Coming across a cut pine forest, there’s more than just sadness at the loss of the beauty. Rather the heaviness that settled on my heart traversing those old red dirt roads back to my grandparents’ home was in processing the change.

I wasn’t just grieving the loss of my Grampy; I was grieving the change.

It’s remarkable to me how we come to expect those old pine forests to always be there. We rely on their peace, their stability, their constancy. And when they are gone, we just don’t know quite how to function.

Like the lone pine in the above picture, there is a whole new environment to learn and to try and thrive in. There is a loneliness, an isolation, and a strangeness to it. A lot is different for that tree. The winds will blow differently, the storms will take on a different quality, and heck, even the sun will shine differently on the tree. When the seasons of change come, there is much to work through and grow through.

As the giants of our previous generation are beginning to pass, we are watching the old pine forests of our youth changing. Those things that we relied upon, those things we counted on, are changing. We thought the world would always be one way, but now it functions differently.

There is a very real melancholy that settles on my heart as I watch those forests be cut. I feel it further when I consider one day that I’ll be that lone pine.

I’ll miss my Grampy. I already miss much that has been lost. I recognize that life grows despite how we feel about it. Through the difficulties and fires and storms, new life grows. And where there is no death, there can be no life that follows.

Whenever I drive through quiet pine forests I’ll think about my Grampy. I’ll think about the humor he gave me, how he was always there for us, and challenge myself to stand for others. As I watch my children grow, I know one day we all will be cut down.

And that’s OK.

We know that even in the melancholy of our world our Savior knows us, and not a hair falls from our heads nor leaves from our metaphorical tree without him knowing. He recognizes our sadness at the things we have lost, the echoes of our loss in Eden.

But where he comforts, there new life will grow. As Isaiah reminds us: just like the rain returns to the ground from where it came, so also God’s word never returns void. I know that as I invest his word and his Spirit in my life, I’ll grow, I’ll provide shade for those around me, and I’ll see his purpose in my life. And when the day comes that this mortal frame falls, I will take comfort that there are other trees that will grow in my place.

I mourn the old pine, while I praise the evergreen of my Savior. I’ll just have to take a few moments to learn the new ways the wind will blow.

Signs and wonders, y’all.

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” Matthew 5:4